The Shroud of Heaven

by Sean Ellis

  Kismet stared at the crumpled, but relatively intact Humvee as though trying to divine its purpose. The engine had evidently stalled, but for all the outward damage—the missing doors and crushed fender panels—the vehicle appeared operational.

  Still trying to determine the significance of the Humvee’s presence, Kismet saw movement in the corner of his eye and looked out across the field. Beyond the second concrete barricade, the stolen resupply vehicle was struggling to maintain its lead. Its left rear tire—perforated by a few lucky shots from Bravo 25’s machine gun—was coming apart. Huge chunks of black rubber were thrown out in its wake, directly in the path of the remaining chase vehicle. Though the Humvee was equipped with a run-flat rim, essentially a hard rubber tire inside the inflated outer tire, which allowed it to remain operational in exactly such a circumstance, the reduced wheel diameter cut its top speed nearly in half, especially on the loose sandy surface. Delta 44 was going to win the chase.

  Kismet glanced back at the dazed survivors of the crash, then looked again at the vehicle from which he had been thrown. Responding to an undefined impulse, he began walking toward the wounded Humvee.

  “Kismet?”

  He heard Buttrick’s croaked inquiry, but elected to ignore it. Instead, he quickened his pace, reaching the doorless vehicle in a few steps, and slid behind the steering wheel. He searched for only a moment to locate the starter switch, and turned it all the way to the right.

  A triumphant grin crossed his mouth as the engine rattled to life. Still in gear, he had only to depress the accelerator and Delta 46 was back in the chase.

  Buttrick was shouting for him to stop but Kismet, full of purpose, paid no heed. He brought the vehicle around in a wide turn, taking it nearly to the center divider before turning the front end toward the outside of the road, where a second unbroken string of concrete barricades stood as a guard rail. Almost as an afterthought he pulled the seatbelt taut across his lap and locked it in place before stomping the accelerator pedal to the floor.

  Though he had already endured one such jump, the perspective from the driver’s seat was different somehow. He was a little closer to the action and further from the pivot point of the rear wheels, but the real dissimilarity lay in the act of initiating a nearly suicidal assault on the barrier. As a passenger, all he had to do was hang on. Although the approach seemed to take forever, it was over in an instant. The front end was violently knocked upward and the rest of the Humvee followed. The landing on the loose soil beyond the road was less forceful than the first and Kismet easily maintained control.

  He quickly located the chase by the enormous cloud of dust. Both vehicles were traveling in a straight line toward the city’s main rail yard. The Humvee driven by the assassin became visible as it made an abrupt right-hand turn, peeling off from what would otherwise have been a collision course with a line of empty freight cars, and began traveling parallel to the rail spur. Realizing he had an opportunity to intercept, Kismet angled toward a point ahead of their quarry while Delta 44 swung into line directly behind, continuing the relentless advance.

  Kismet gripped the wheel breathlessly. His bid to flank the assassin had only one fatal flaw: the artificial barrier posed by the rail cars ended well short of the intercept point. However, just beyond the last car, at the point where spur entered onto the main track, a second train was moving through the rail yard at a deliberate but unstoppable pace. Once that train passed the intersection, it would close the door of escape.

  The assassin evidently saw this as well. With a desperate burst of speed, Delta 42 charged ahead. As it did, the run-flat rim on the left rear tire began to come apart, scattering large pieces of rubber across the gravel near the rail bed. The vehicle swerved uncertainly, but somehow the driver managed to maintain control as it approached the end of the idle train.

  Kismet saw what was about to happen but was powerless to prevent it. The assassin swerved across the spur, the vehicle fishtailing uncertainly as it bounced over the iron rails, but straightened as it crossed the mainline a whisper ahead of the advancing locomotive. The driver of D-44, once more suffering from tunnel vision, never looked away from his goal.

  Kismet made an instinctive grab for the radio handset, impotently shouting: “Break off!”

  The message was never received.

  The train was only traveling about twenty-five kilometers per hour but its mass was relentless. It hit the Humvee broadside, nearly bisecting the vehicle, and drove it forward along the tracks. The horrifying scene was lost from view as the locomotive pushed the wreckage beyond the parked train on the branching track, but there was no mistaking the eruption of black smoke as the diesel fuel tank, warmed by the desert sun and compressed by the crushing weight of the train, reached its flashpoint and exploded.

  Kismet, still shouting a warning that would never be heeded, stomped on the brake pedal, bringing the Humvee to a halt a few meters from the rolling line of rail cars. The pursuit seemed to be over.

  Fired by the same impulse that had motivated him to chase after the assassin in the first place, Kismet refused to admit defeat. Flooring the throttle once more, he veered out into the open area for several seconds before coming around in a wide turn that brought him parallel to the incoming train. He eased back on the accelerator, matching the pace of the rail cars, and tried to put the pieces of his plan into coherent order.

  He knew that Delta 42 was nearly on its last gasp. Once the ruined tire fell completely apart, the assassin would be forced to continue on foot. All Kismet had to do was get to the other side of the moving train and that meant he was going to have to abandon his Humvee and transfer to the train. As long as D-46 was traveling at the same speed as the rail cars, he would at least have a chance of making the transition.

  He looked around for something to hold the accelerator pedal down, but found nothing. Everything not bolted in place had been thrown clear during the earlier rollover. His eyes then settled on the radio unit. While it was secured in place, the clamping bolts were easily loosed, and a moment later he pulled it free of its mount. The weight of the back-up battery inside the oblong metal box made it ideal for what he had in mind. He removed his foot from the pedal and replaced it with the radio.

  That minor success was overshadowed by the fact that he was now running out of road. His course alongside the moving train was soon going to bring him to the spur where the idle freight cars were parked. He would have to make his move quickly or not at all.

  The train loomed above the passenger side door and the metal rungs of an access ladder were visible beyond the opening, but Kismet did not relish the idea of trying to squirm across the interior of his vehicle in the seconds that remained. He instead sprang for the open turret hatch in the center of the Humvee’s roof and thrust himself through the opening in a single decisive jump. The driverless vehicle maintained course and speed, but he knew there was no time for delay.

  His objective now seemed much further away than before. Though he was relatively close to the rolling train, there remained a distance of almost two meters between the edge of the Humvee’s roof and the rungs of the ladder. To make matters worse, the train was slowing; the engineer had thrown the brakes in a futile effort to prevent the collision with Delta 44 and the juggernaut was still steadily decelerating. The ladder Kismet was so focused on reaching was gradually falling behind him.

  Throwing caution to the wind he stepped back, then took a running leap toward the train. An instant later, he found himself hanging from the rungs on the side of a tanker car. He wasn’t sure of how he had completed the leap, but there was no time to waste figuring it out or congratulating himself on making it look easy. With a deep breath, he started ascending the ladder.

  Delta 46 continued to roll alongside the train, gradually pulling ahead in its race to oblivion. A heartbeat later it plowed into the parked freight cars and annihilated itself. The Humvee came apart in a spray of metal, plastic and rubber, pelting the moving train with almost u
nrecognizable pieces of debris. Kismet ducked reflexively as a chunk of olive drab fiberglass struck near his extended hand.

  His arms were still burning from the exertion of his crazed ride on the back of the ill-fated vehicle and he felt the fatigue rapidly building to the point of failure. After heaving himself onto the catwalk that framed the oval cylinder of the tank car, it was a struggle to get to his feet. From this vantage however, he could see all but a few shadowy corners of the labyrinthine rail yard. The assassin’s vehicle was limping along parallel to the moving train, taking refuge in its behemoth shadow, the driver perhaps assuming that the chase was over. Kismet saw clearly that path that would take his foe to freedom, but wondered if the way out was as obvious at ground level. Shaking the fatigue from his arms, he took off at a sprint.

  Running along the top of the moving train was disconcerting. Though he poured all his remaining energy into the effort, he felt like he was losing ground with every step. His progress along the top of the tanker remained unimpeded, but the simple truth of the matter was that the train was still taking him in the wrong direction at a pace nearly equal to his own.

  At the end of the tank car, he made a relatively simple leap over the intervening distance, onto the next cylindrical body. Though mindful of the moving surface beneath him, he nevertheless went sprawling as soon as his feet touched down. Fortunately, the opposing forces of motion were in line and he did not slip from the narrow metal walkway, but another moment of advantage had gone to the fleeing killer. Kismet scrambled up and took off again.

  By the time he reached the far end of that second rail car, the train had slowed almost to a full stop. His next leap was far less dramatic, and as he ran along the top of yet another tank car, the movement beneath him ceased altogether. Fatigue from his aerobic effort was settling into his legs and chest, but he pressed on, prompted to still greater exertion by the fact that he was finally getting somewhere. However Delta 42 was slowing, hampered by the ruined tire and the driver’s uncertainty about how to negotiate the maze of train cars parked on spur lines at every turn. He closed the distance on the Humvee in what seemed like only a few seconds, then continued ahead along two more rail cars before turning to face the killer.

  He moved out to the edge of the catwalk, calculating the effort required to cross the distance and fixing in his mind the exact moment at which he would have to jump. There would be only one opportunity for him to make the crossing—no false starts, no second-guessing. Yet his earlier successes now filled him with confidence, overriding that instinctive fear of falling. As the Humvee crept closer, he drew in a deep breath, then let it out.

  Suddenly his world seemed to collapse inward. Blood, rushing to nourish and repair his exhausted extremities, seemed to have been shunted away from his brain, and darkness began closing in around the periphery of his vision. He felt an overwhelming need to vomit.

  The Humvee was nearly below him. It was now or never; Kismet had no choice but to make a leap of faith.

  The transition from the top of the train car onto the moving hood of the vehicle was not so much a jump as a controlled fall. Kismet made no effort to keep to his feet as he slammed into the molded fiberglass cover, but instead redirected the momentum of his drop into a sprawl across the broad windshield.

  Through the dark haze occluding his vision, he could not make out the assassin’s reaction to the sudden assault, but he was not expecting a hospitable welcome. He had not forgotten that the killer was armed with a silenced pistol, but there was a much simpler way for repelling boarders against which Kismet would have little defense. His earlier misadventure had revealed just how difficult it would be to cling to the smooth shell of the vehicle.

  The Humvee immediately began to swerve back and forth, but Kismet was ready. Blindly grasping the top mounted windshield wiper arms, he held on as the vehicle bucked beneath him. The driver’s attempt seemed half-hearted. The lost rear tire was proving more troublesome than expected, and after only a couple attempts, the Humvee’s path straightened once more. Kismet did not wait to see what would happen next. He scrambled onto the roof of the vehicle, removing himself from the killer’s line of sight.

  The momentary dizzy spell seemed to relent as he resumed moving. It was the rest, not the exertion, that had compromised his blood pressure. He did not find this realization especially encouraging. He knew the effect would only worsen as the struggle continued, eventually reaching a point where he would simply collapse. It wouldn’t do at all to finally capture his foe and then pass out before commencing the interrogation.

  The Humvee shifted to the left beneath him, not in an attempt to shake him loose, but simply a turn leading them one step closer to the edge of the maze. As the platform beneath him stabilized once more, Kismet turned his attention to the hatch covering the turret. The sheets of metal were secured from within by several snap-down clamps. He contemplated trying to use the kukri to pry it open, but rejected that plan. His forced entry would likely be so noisy that the assassin would be waiting to dispatch him with a gunshot as soon as he tried to pass through. He would have to find a better solution.

  Spread-eagled prone on the roof and still fiercely gripping the driver’s side windshield wiper pivot with his right hand, he drew the gun from his waist pack and wormed toward the left side of the car. He ducked down long enough to look in through the window then pulled back quickly in case the assassin was waiting with gun drawn. Seeing no evidence that such was the case, he reached down with the gun and hammered on the pane.

  “Stop now!” He repeated his order twice more, shouting each time and punctuating his words with taps on the plastic surface.

  His demand was ignored. Delta 42 continued limping across the rail yard, angling toward the gaps between parked trains and scraping over the metal tracks. Like a table with one short leg, the entire vehicle wobbled uncertainly as it moved, dropping down on the chewed-up remains of the rear wheel then rebounding onto the three good tires. But then, as the path out of the maze became apparent, the driver did something that seemed completely counter-intuitive. The Humvee began to accelerate.

  He was forced to stow the gun once more and hold on with both hands as the vehicle picked up speed. The last set of tracks fell behind as it pulled onto a graveled road, and as the engine poured more and more power into the three good wheels, the vehicle seemed to stabilize. Kismet however, began to feel more and more uncertain as their velocity increased, and a glance into the hot wind blasting against his face supplied more than adequate reason for concern. The road on which they were now hurtling forward ended in a locked gate.

  Reason dictated that the driver was bluffing. Surely no sane person would charge such an obstacle headlong. Yet, as the barrier drew nearer, Kismet became more certain of the assassin’s intentions. When the Humvee hit the simple iron gate, the sudden stop would catapult him forward, hurling him from his precarious perch and launching him like a missile. It was conceivable that he might survive with only a few broken bones, but the odds did not favor that outcome. The only safe choice was to abandon the vehicle.

  With only seconds remaining before the collision, he scooted headfirst toward the sloping rear hatch of the Humvee, and reached down to the familiar United Nations banner that had adorned each vehicle in the ill-fated convoy. From this perspective, the damage wrought by Bravo 25’s machine gun was evident. A series of ragged holes marred the smooth shell of the vehicle and had punched through the white flag in several places. A dark stain—diesel fuel from the resupply cans—was spreading like blood from some of the wounds.

  Kismet grasped the damaged banner with both hands, then allowed his weight to fall sideways. His feet came around in a broad arc and abruptly all of his mass was depending from the torn flag as his boots dragged along the gravel roadway.

  “This seems familiar,” he muttered through clenched teeth. Dismissing the irony of his situation, Kismet braced himself for what was about to happen, and let go.

  The impact wa
s much worse than he had expected. His chest slammed into the ground, driving the air from his lungs even as inertia continued to propel him along behind the doomed Humvee. The grainy pebbles that covered the roadway were more forgiving than a paved surface, but nonetheless stripped the skin from his palms and elbows. It was, he imagined, like being pulled across a cheese grater. He made a belated effort to roll in order to reduce the burn of friction, but all this seemed to do was spread the pain around evenly.

  He did not see the collision, but there was no mistaking the sickening crunch of metal on metal. Kismet’s agonizing tumble ended about ten meters from the rear of the Humvee. The vehicle was still quaking on its springs from the shock of hitting the barrier.

  That the driver had been willing to flirt with suicide in an effort to knock him loose from his perch seemed too ludicrous to consider, yet there was no refuting the obvious outcome. Nevertheless, it stood to reason that the assassin would have taken steps to survive the crash, and it was this assumption that motivated Kismet to haul himself erect and draw his weapon.

  He advanced with due caution, feeling acutely the pain of his exertions in every muscle and joint as he crept forward, staying low. He expected the assassin to appear at any moment, brandishing a gun, but there was no sign of activity on board the Humvee. He raised his head level with the windows for a second, then quickly ducked down again.

  The vehicle was abandoned. Kismet looked in again, more assertively to verify what that initial glance had revealed. There was no sign of Aziz’s murderer behind the wheel.

  The collision had crumpled the hood and grill of the vehicle, and a plume of superheated steam rose from the ruptured remains of the radiator. However, aside from what was mostly cosmetic damage, the Humvee had weathered the crash quite well. The cheap padlock securing the gate had snapped, allowing the single iron I-beam to burst open on its hinge, transferring some of the kinetic energy away from the vehicle. Nevertheless, the occupant of the vehicle would have been subjected to a violent burst of force, certainly enough to stun, if not kill.